


he could build a city

by carrythesky



Category: Breaking Bad, El Camino - Fandom
Genre: Dogs, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Loneliness, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 00:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: Start over. Start fresh. Put things right.No. Sorry, kid. That’s the one thing you can never do.Maybe, maybe not. You take another step forward anyways.





	he could build a city

_there is the road,_

_and there is the story of where the road goes—_

**\+ one day after.**

Haines is—different. You sure as hell aren’t in the ABQ anymore. There’s like, _no_ people here, for one thing, and that makes you nervous. You’re a strange face, a newcomer. People will notice, right? They’ll notice, and then—

But you make it to the grocery store just fine. You push your cart around, pay for your food the same as everyone else, and no one looks twice at you. Then you’re driving back through town, past a post office and a bank and at least three different seafood restaurants, which, _hell yes._ The classiest seafood place you’ve been to is Red Lobster, and only then because their biscuits tasted fucking phenomenal when you were high. Skinny had once convinced Badger to bribe the waitress for the recipe, which went about as terribly as you thought it would. Later, Skinny looked it up and found out you could just buy the mix at the store.

_God,_ you miss them.

It hurts more to try _not_ to think about them, so you let yourself. All the way out of town, you think about Badger hitchhiking up from the Mexico border, Skinny taking heat from the police, covering for you. You think about the last words you said to each of them, and how you wish you would’ve said more.

The turn comes up faster than you’re expecting. Asphalt gives way to mud and snow pack, and you shift the Toyota into four-wheel drive. The street doesn’t even have a real name—_Road S.7_, reads the battered sign at the turn-off—and you can’t help but feel a swell of gratitude towards Ed. Quiet, he’d promised, and he definitely delivered.

Your house is the only one on this street. It’s an a-frame, like the ones your parents always talked about building. They wanted a place up north, somewhere like Wyoming or Montana where they could take you and Jake skiing, or whatever it is normal families do. Maybe that’s what they would’ve done with the extra cash from selling your Aunt Ginny’s house.

You put the Toyota in park, open the back hatch, and grab a bag of groceries in each hand. The snow here is still fresh, and it crunches under your boot when you take a tentative step.

_Start over. Start fresh. Put things right. _

_No. Sorry, kid. That’s the one thing you can never do._

Maybe, maybe not. You take another step forward anyways.

.

**\+ one week after.**

The a-frame is nice. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but the place is fully-furnished, down to the shower curtain in the bathroom, and the living room windows face south, so it’s warm and light most of the day. It’s the last type of place you ever saw yourself living, but it’s yours. It’s safe.

This morning’s routine is the same as the last few have been—coffee, breakfast, get a fire going in the wood-burning stove. There’s a deer outside the window, and you watch her for a moment while you sip the rest of your coffee. She lifts her head to look at you, the length of her statue-still—and then she’s turning away to resume foraging. You aren’t a threat.

You have more money than you know what to do with, but you still give the job classifieds a once-over. The thought of hanging around the a-frame day after day makes your palms itch—you want to stay busy, stay _doing_, so you circle a few part-time stints, places you’re reasonably sure won’t laugh you and your lack of a resume out the door.

No flashbacks today, when you finally make it to the shower.

This life you’re carving out is a work in progress, but that’s okay. You’re building it from scratch, sanding it down and filing away the jagged edges. It’s gonna take some time, and you’re okay with that. You’re okay.

.

There’s a dog curled up on the porch when you open your front door. Definitely a mutt, some kind of lab mix. No collar. You ease the door shut as quietly as you can, but it stirs at the noise and lifts its head.

“Hey, bud,” you say, squatting and reaching a hand out.

The dog takes a tentative sniff in your direction, so you shift closer. It’s the wrong move. The dog scrabbles to its feet and tears off into the trees before you can blink.

“Yo!” you shout, but it’s gone.

You make a mental note to grab some kibble when you’re in town.

.

The first three jobs on your list are a bust. One of them has been filled already, another wants at least a year of previous experience, and the lady at the last place takes one look at your ink, plasters a fake smile on her face, and tells you she’ll be in touch.

“Bitch,” you growl under your breath as soon as you’re back in your car. Your fingers itch for a cigarette, and you dig around in your pocket before remembering that you don’t have any, that you’d purposefully avoided buying any at the store. Fresh start, and all that.

You tip your head back to rest against the seat. For the first time since getting here, it starts to sink in just how _alone_ you are. It has to be this way, you know that. It’s like your life’s been split cleanly in half—everything before Alaska, and everything after. You can’t go back, and you can’t fit the pieces together again. You get it.

Doesn’t mean it’s not gonna suck, sometimes.

You pick up some dog food on your way home—a bag with words like “natural” and “grain-free,” because why the hell not—and you’re almost out of town when a sign by the road catches your eye.

_Morley’s Custom Woodworking, 2 miles south on 3rd Ave_

When you get to 3rd, you turn automatically, like you know exactly where you’re going. It’s your foot pumping the gas, your hands on the steering wheel, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being pulled towards something.

_Fuck off, universe,_ you think, but you keep driving.

Morley’s sits where the road dead-ends. You duck inside, and the first thing that hits you is the smell, all pine-y and sweet. There’s a table and a couple chairs sitting by the entrance, and you run a hand over the closest one. Smooth as glass.

“How can I help you?”

You turn. There’s a guy walking towards you who looks like a lumberjack poster boy—big and tall, full-grown beard, arms like tree stumps. He’s older, maybe Mike’s age.

“Uh,” you say stupidly. “Yeah, hey, man, I was just—I was in the, y’know, the area, and I just wanted to see if you maybe needed help with, I don’t know, stocking inventory or cleaning up, or whatever—”

The guy’s looking at you like he’s trying not to laugh, and honestly you can’t blame him. You sound like a rambling moron.

“You know what, I’m just gonna—” you gesture towards the front door.

“You new in town?” the guy says, looking thoroughly amused.

Shit. It’s that obvious.

“Yeah, been here about a week.”

The guy appraises you. His eyes are soft and kind, which kinda flies in the face of the whole lumberjack thing, but, hey, no judgment here. “Got any woodworking experience?” he asks.

Sure, if making half a dozen boxes for a vo-tech class in high school counts.

“Not exactly,” you say. “But—I’m a fast learner, and I’m good with my hands. In a totally non-pervy way,” you quickly clarify, “which you probably didn’t need to know, but it’s always good to, y’know—” you trail off and heave a sigh. “Okay, how badly am I screwing this up?”

The guy quirks a smile. “Depends on if you’re gonna keep talking or not.”

You’re laughing before you can think better of it, and the guy’s chuckling too, and then he’s saying, “I’ve got a workshop this Saturday. Why don’t you come by? We’ll see what you got.”

You’re not sure if it’s the universe making the decision or if it’s you, but you don’t really care. Either way, it’s another step forward, and you’re gonna take it.

.

**\+ one month after.**

You still have nightmares. Sometimes you’re in the cage, and sometimes you’re on top of it, and they’re pressing you down, pressing your face against the bars.

“Open your eyes, Jesse,” someone—Todd?—is saying. “Open your eyes and look.”

Sometimes, you fight back. You strangle Todd with your handcuffs, the metal digging into his neck. You beat the shit out of Jack, or one of his other inbred thugs (you never bothered to learn their names). You shoot yourself in the head.

Sometimes, it’s Walt holding you down instead of Todd.

You’re not sure when, if ever, the dreams will stop, but maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is that they’re all gone and you’re still here. Whatever that means, you’re still here. You’re still fighting.

It’s a small comfort, but it’s something.

.

It’s taken you a couple weeks, but the dog is starting to warm up to you.

You’ve started calling it Skinny, and yeah, you tell yourself it’s because the poor thing really _is_ skin and bones, and no other reason. It still sits a comfortable distance away from you whenever you’re outside, but it’s stopped bolting every time you make a movement that’s faster than not moving at all. You don’t know shit about dogs, but you know enough not to try approaching it again. Just let it be, let it see that you’re here and you mean no harm.

You keep a handful of dog food with you when you’re outside, just in case.

You’re stacking cords of firewood in the shed out back when the dog comes up to you, right up to you, tail wagging tentatively.

“Hey, there,” you say, but as soon as you stick a hand out, the dog growls.

“Okay.” You fish around in your back pocket. “You don’t know me, I get it. I totally get it. But maybe this—” you proffer the hand with the kibble— “will change your mind.”

You’re careful not to make eye contact as it sniffs your hand. Then it’s crunching the food up, tongue licking your palm enthusiastically as it searches for more where that came from.

“Right on, my kind of guy. Or, uh—” you duck your head and quickly scan the dog’s underside— “girl, I guess. Sorry about that.”

It’s another few weeks before Skinny will let you pet her, and one more after that before you can coax her into your car to take her to the vet. She’s not micro-chipped, and no one’s reported a missing dog, so they give her a routine series of shots and tell you it’s okay to take her home.

You’re not sure if this is a good idea—can you really even take care of yourself?—but it feels right. She’s like you, lost and alone. Maybe this is what both of you need.

.

You rent out a space at Morley’s after hours to work on the projects he gives you. Small things, at first, like cabinet drawers and birdhouses. During the week, you take orders and receive shipments and assist him with the larger custom pieces he’s working on. It’s hard work, but it’s good. You like working with your hands, making things instead of breaking them apart.

You think a lot about that box you made. You wish you would’ve actually given it to your mom. She would’ve been proud of it, of you.

You wish—

.

**\+ one year after.**

_“...and I’m gonna gently, gently tap, following the angles in the mountain. Always follow your angles.”_

“Follow the angles,” you echo, bringing your brush up to the canvas. “Hell yeah, I can follow the angles.”

You must be pressing down too hard, because the colors are starting to smear together. If you’re being honest, most of this painting is a mess, but the mountains actually look halfway decent. You’re starting to get the hang of those.

_“...and then just beat the devil out of it.”_

“That’s my favorite part,” you tell Skinny, who’s watching you with mild curiosity.

Netflix freezes for a moment, the percentage ticking upwards slowly as the episode renders, but you’re not concerned. That happens pretty frequently. You take advantage of the pause to clean your brush beat-the-devil style, which startles Skinny. Her claws clack against the wood floor as she scrambles away from you.

The rest of the painting is relatively painless—you mix the phthalo green with your purple instead of phthalo blue, but hey, happy accident. You’re getting used to accepting those.

Skinny re-emerges, eyeing you warily. You laugh and stoop to ruffle her ears.

“Sorry I scared you,” you say. “But, hey, it’s part of the process, yeah? Can’t jerk around with the process. Especially not Bob’s.”

Skinny just licks your hand in response.

.

You finish your first major piece at work, a two-leaf, red oak dining table. You’re almost a little sad when the couple who ordered it come to pick it up, but it would just sit in the shop otherwise. And you’d never live it down if you admitted it to Morley, who likened selling the first piece of furniture he ever built to sending a kid off to college.

“It’s beautiful,” the couple tells you. “Even better than we imagined. Thank you.”

You do your best to ignore all the knowing looks Morley shoots in your direction for the rest of the day.

.

You write to Badger and Skinny (the human) on a semi-regular basis. The letters are pretty general—you try to avoid any details that might give away where you are—but you tell them about the wood shop, and Skinny (the dog). Once, you accidentally write your return address on the envelope. You briefly consider sending it anyways. They’d come, they’d absolutely come if they knew where you were, and you’d be selfish enough to let them.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss them, but it’s gotten better. You picture them playing GTA on Badger’s Playstation, or smoking a bowl, and it hurts a little less. They’re safe and they’re happy, and your loneliness is a small price to pay for that.

_You’re, like, my hero and shit._

They have no idea it’s actually the other way around.

.

You watch the Northern Lights from your porch, a mug of hot tea in your hands and Skinny’s head resting on your knee. You think, _this must be what heaven is like._

.

“So, where should we go?”

Skinny looks at you like she’d like nothing better than to murder you, but you figure that probably has more to do with the car than you. She’s quivering in the backseat, and you haven’t even turned the key in the ignition yet.

“C’mon, don’t look at me like that. You love car rides.”

Skinny whines and paws at the door.

“Okay, maybe love’s a strong word, but you love the mountains right? And the only way to get to the mountains is to ride in the car, so. We cool?”

Soon you’re on the highway. The back windows are rolled down, and Skinny’s sticking her head gleefully out the passenger side, all thoughts of murder gone from her head. You think you both might be happiest when you’re driving like this, wind in your hair and your ears, nothing but open road stretched ahead.

You don’t know where you’re going, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll find your way.

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE ONE (1) MAN AND HIS NAME IS JESSE BRUCE PINKMAN.
> 
> a few things:  
1) title is from "road music" by richard siken  
2) [ this ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgbMONXc9Cs&t=599s)is the bob ross episode jesse was watching, in case anyone is curious :)  
3) i'm on [tumblr](https://carry-the-sky.tumblr.com/) \- come say hi! the fic is also rebloggable over there, if that's your jam


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